


write it on my neck

by Philosoferre



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fix-It, M/M, Making Out, Pre-Canon, blake doesn't die!, this is entirely based on one line from the script
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosoferre/pseuds/Philosoferre
Summary: On April 6th, Tom and Will finally get some time alone.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	write it on my neck

**Author's Note:**

> okay so, this entire fic is based on one (1) line from the script: "Schofield quickly buttons up his tunic, hiding any sins there may be underneath." god bless krysty wilson-cairns for writing this
> 
> thanks to my sister for listening to me ramble for weeks about this movie and my love for blakefield, and thanks to the 2nd devons for being super supportive and genuinely the loveliest bunch of people ever <3
> 
> the title for this fic comes from shameless by camila cabello

Will doesn’t usually do this, but today he’s willing to make an exception. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s never done this before Tom, never even considered it. The risk of getting caught was always too big, looming in the front of his mind whenever he so much as let his gaze linger a little too long on someone particularly handsome. 

It was never more than a passing thought—if anything at all. If another soldier tried to make any sort of move—twice, so far, on leave—he simply ignored them and hoped it would go away soon, that they wouldn’t try again, because if they got caught… that could potentially mean being sent back home. And for the longest time, Will didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to see his family again, knowing full well it could be the last time. It’d be easier, he figured, if he just stayed in France and pushed them away and pretended there weren’t parts of him that existed outside the trenches. 

He used to want that, anyway. Now, the idea of going home is a much different story. Because if he and Tom get caught, and they both get to leave, then—well, that might not be so bad after all. 

“Scho.”

Will’s startled out of his thoughts by Tom, barely an inch away from his face, all blue eyes and parted lips and a deep, noticeable blush, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we were gonna…” Tom trails off, glances away for a split second, bites his lip. “You know.”

Will nods, a little distracted. “Yes, we were—we are. Sorry, I just… Where were we?”

Tom only lets out a huff, but he’s grinning and his tongue darts out to wet his lips and Will knows he won’t ask why he got distracted. That’s one of the things he likes most about Tom: he always knows when to push, and when not to. And now is definitely not the time.

Will circles his arms around Tom’s waist, warm and comforting and  _ real, _ and pulls him in until they’re sharing the same breath. His eyes flutter shut. Tom slides his hands up to rest on Will’s shoulders, familiar even through all his clothes. 

“Well, hello, handsome,” Tom whispers, his voice low and sultry. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Will hums, tilts his head, and kisses Tom long and slow, like they have all the time in the world. It’s open-mouthed and messy—way too risky, way too obvious—but Will doesn’t care. He can’t care, not when Tom’s kissing him like he’s the only thing keeping him grounded and his tongue is prying his mouth open and they’re both gasping for breath in the best possible way. He should care, probably—there’s still always the chance someone might see them—but he can’t find it in himself, because he knows they’re alone out here, half-hidden behind a big oak tree, and they still have a good few minutes to pretend they won’t soon have to stop. 

Normally—when they actually get to do this—Tom’s the one pressed against the tree, pliant and submissive and so beautifully vulnerable, his legs wrapped around Will’s waist and his arms clasped tight behind his neck. He always looks gorgeous like that: head thrown back against the bark, cheeks a pretty pink, panting and whispering  _ more, more, more _ . Will likes him all the time, thinks he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen no matter the circumstances, but especially like that. He likes the way Tom gets flustered, the way he lets out soft moans when he kisses down his throat, the way his hands always linger on a new mark until it fades away. 

Will doesn’t usually like feeling crowded, but he doesn’t mind when it’s Tom holding him there. Besides, he’s been so lost in his thoughts today, and he needs Tom to take control, needs to surrender himself completely, even if it’s just for a little while.

“I’ve missed this,” Tom whispers as he pulls back, absentmindedly wiping at the spit glistening on his red, red lips. “I’ve missed  _ you. _ ”

Will lets out a soft laugh. “We’re together all the time.”

“I know,” Tom says. He sighs, leans forward to press his face in the crook of Will’s neck, and his voice is muffled in his shirt when he speaks. “But not like this. I just—I wish we could. You know. Do this.”

Will knows what he means, and he wishes for it too. He’s not very religious, but he used to stay awake late, praying to whoever’s out there that maybe, one day, they could. That maybe, one day, they won’t have to sneak away and hide behind trees just to steal a few kisses. 

“At least we can now,” Will says, tracing faint circles over the small of Tom’s back. 

Tom hums against his skin, and when he finally looks up again, he’s grinning. “You’re right. Better not waste any more precious time.”

Tom draws him in for another slow, gentle kiss, and Will chuckles against his lips, digging his thumbs into Tom’s waist. He doesn’t know how long they spend there—minutes, hours, days—but eventually, when they’re both starting to get out-of-breath, Tom ducks his head to trail sloppy kisses along Will’s jaw and down his neck instead. Will closes his eyes, leans back against the tree, and tries to think only of Tom’s warm hands and soft lips and the complete silence around them. 

After a while, though—he doesn’t know how long—he hears voices in the distance, and the faint patter of approaching footsteps. Tom immediately steps back and wipes his mouth, but it doesn’t do much to help. He still looks gloriously ruined, lips red and cheeks flushed, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, like he’s daring Will to kiss him again. Anyone who looks long enough and hard enough will immediately be able to tell what they were doing—but, Will supposes, that’s part of what makes it so fun. So  _ thrilling. _

Will’s never been one to take risks like this, never considered himself adventurous or daring or even much of a rule-breaker—until he met Tom Blake.

As the voices grow louder, and they can start to make out bits of conversation, Will turns to look in their direction, try and suss out if he can spare another quick kiss. There’s a pair of soldiers approaching the tree close to theirs; it’s still a few good feet away, but not nearly far enough that they could risk anything else. There goes their precious moment of privacy, then. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Tom says, peeking past the tree to get a glimpse of the soldiers. 

Will lets out a quiet laugh. He sits down, leans his head back against the tree, and pats the space beside him. “Come on, then, let’s just—let’s try and get a little rest, yeah?”

With a loud, reluctant sigh, Tom comes over to join him, mumbling something under his breath that Will can’t make out. As soon as he gets Tom close again, Will wraps an arm around his waist to pull him in, and Tom presses his face against his shoulder. From afar, they’ll look like any two soldiers, just leaning against each other as they nap. 

Will closes his eyes, tracing shapes through Tom’s shirt. Even though their plans were disrupted, it’s still nice to sit out here—the meadow is peaceful in a way nothing else ever is, washed in gold sunlight, the faint smell of budding flowers in the air. Will can’t hear anything but Tom’s rhythmic breaths and conversations carried by the wind, and for a moment, it almost feels like he’s back home, at his parents’ farm, or the park he and his sister used to go to. Home—he hasn’t thought about that in ages. 

He opens his eyes when he feels Tom pull away, just slightly, no longer pressed right against his side. 

“Aw, sorry,” Tom says, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes are firmly on the collar of Will’s shirt. “You might want to, uh… hide that.” 

Will looks down, but he can’t see whatever it is Tom’s referring to, so he pulls back his shirt and— 

Sure enough, there’s a faint bruise on his neck, low enough that he can easily conceal it. He touches it lightly; it barely even hurts, but he can still tell it’s there. It’ll go away in a day or two, probably. But for now, while he still has it, it’s a nice reminder.

“You should hide it.”

Tom reaches over to pull Will’s collar back up, but Will swats his hand away. He’ll fix it when he needs to. Currently, though, there’s no need, and he prefers letting Tom see it, anyway—something to tide him over until the next time they can do this.

“Bastard,” Tom mumbles, voice muffled from where his face is pressed against Will’s shoulder.

They stay like that, in comfortable silence, until Tom grumbles something about the tree being “bloody uncomfortable” and goes to lie down in the grass instead. He folds his hands on his chest, legs sprawled out, helmet tilted over his face to block out the sun. He looks peaceful, like this. Soft and gentle and warm. Like he belongs here—like he was born for this meadow and this meadow was carved out just for him. He looks at home; Will wonders if this place, the rolling hills and soft fields and bright blue sky, reminds him of his family’s farm, if he forgets sometimes, momentarily, that he’s far away. 

Will intends to nap, maybe get a bit of rest before they inevitably have to go back to the trenches, but he finds that, instead, he wastes a good hour watching Tom sleep. He always falls asleep quickly, even when there’s a storm raging overhead, even when they can hear the echo of heavy fire in the wind—it’s no surprise he’s managed to doze off out here. He looks younger when he’s asleep; his face is softer, fresher, less worried. He looks like he belongs in a painting in some museum, too pure and untouched and beautiful to exist in such a cruel, marred world. Often, when Tom manages to sleep but Will can’t—sometimes, most of the time, it’s easier to watch the shadows in the trenches than give in to those that lurk in his mind—he watches Tom, traces the lines of his face, over and over and over until he’s sure he could know Tom blind. And sometimes, when it gets especially hard, he lets himself dream of a future where he wakes up to Tom every day, washed in early-morning sunlight, safe and warm on a real bed. 

He doesn’t let himself fall into that trap often, though. It’s a future he shouldn’t allow himself to think of. 

He’s just managed to doze off when he’s startled awake by the familiar sound of approaching footsteps. He doesn’t open his eyes—he just listens as someone walks up to their tree, then stops. For a second, he thinks that maybe whoever it is has moved on, but then they speak. 

“Blake.”

Will doesn’t feel Tom stir, doesn’t hear him grumbling like he usually does when he gets woken up. 

“Blake,” the man says, again, a little louder.

This time, Tom wakes up, so suddenly that his boot knocks into Will’s side. Will opens his eyes, turns his head slightly to catch a glimpse of the man looming over them, and closes his eyes again. He wants to enjoy this peace, this precious quiet, for a few more minutes. It won’t hurt.

“Sorry, Sarge,” Tom mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. 

The man—most likely Sergeant Sanders, though Will can never remember his voice—lets out an impatient huff and says, “Pick a man, bring your kit.”

Tom stands up with a groan, dusts his hands on his pants; his boots thud softly as he takes the two steps over to where Will is sitting. There’s a beat of silence, and even though his eyes are closed, Will can tell Tom is holding his hand out, can see it take shape in his mind from months spent committing it to memory. 

Will looks up at Tom’s radiant, beautiful face, at his crystal-clear eyes, at his lips, still a faint red. And then he smiles and takes Tom’s hand.

* * *

Will sits by Tom’s bed for four days, waiting for him to wake up. He’d gone down to the 8th as soon as he could, after Lieutenant Blake forced him to go to the Devons’ medical tent and get his own wounds treated, and he hasn’t left since. Several people have come by to try and get him to leave—who, he can’t remember—but it was always to no avail. Will wouldn’t be moved. He wouldn’t dare leave, in case Tom woke up, in case… in case— 

He’s resting, eyes closed, not quite asleep—the back of his chair digging uncomfortably into his neck—when he hears a faint rustle from somewhere beside him. He sits up, choking on a sharp breath, and turns to look at Tom, who—

Who’s now awake. 

Tom, who’s awake and smiling and absolutely breath-taking, still shining like the sun itself, even though the tent is dark and the one lantern Will lit hours ago is growing dim. 

Tom is here, and he’s alive, and Will wants to cry.

“Hey,” Tom says, hoarse and broken. He slowly, carefully reaches his hand out across the bed, lets it stretch across the inches between them. “Scho, you’re—you’re here.”

Will sniffles and takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to hold in the sob that threatens to crawl its way up his throat. “Of course I’m here.”

He leans forward to take Tom’s hand, twines their fingers together and  _ squeezes _ , just to make sure Tom is real and solid, and he’s not having a fever dream. He slides one finger down to rest on Tom’s wrist, right where he can feel his steady pulse. It’s comforting; it grounds him in a way nothing else ever has. 

“Thank you,” Tom says.

Will knows what he means. He smiles, brings Tom’s hand up to press a soft kiss to his palm. “I didn’t want you waking up alone.”

Tom lets out a breath. He attempts to sit up, but Will can tell it hurts—he winces, curses under his breath, and then immediately lies back down, hitting the pillow with a gentle thud. 

“I thought—” Will pauses, the words dying on his tongue. He’s been carrying this thought for days, always at the forefront of his mind, but now he isn’t quite sure how to say it. All he knows is that he needs to. He  _ needs _ to. “I thought, at first, when you—that you were going to—”

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” Tom interrupts, squeezing Will’s hand reassuringly. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Will nods. He knows this, he’s been here the entire time, and yet… some part of him still can’t believe that Tom’s really here, that he’s safe now, that they’re together. 

Will takes a deep breath. He needs to get this out. “Look, Tom, I—”

Tom squeezes his hand again, his smile lighting up the whole damn world, and for a moment, Will feels like nothing exists beyond the canvas walls of this tent. For a moment, he swears that there’s no war, no carnage, no cruelty—how can there be, in a world where Tom exists? 

The thing is, somewhere along the way to the Devons, Will realized something: he’s fully, completely, unconditionally in love with Tom Blake. He’s not so sure when it hit him—perhaps it was at the orchard, when he listened to Tom talk about cherries; perhaps it was when he scrambled out of the river, shaking and soaked, and the only thing on his mind was  _ Tom, Tom, Tom _ ; perhaps it was when he finally got to rest, and the first thing he thought of when he saw that tree was that Tom would like the view, Tom would probably fall asleep, Tom would— 

“I love you,” Will blurts.

Tom sucks in a sharp, surprised breath. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything—just looks at Will with wide eyes and parted lips. And then he breaks into another smile and whispers, “I love you too.”

And this time, in the relative privacy of the tent and the darkness outside, Will allows himself one indulgence: he leans closer and kisses Tom softly, gently, lets all the love he’s been keeping inside spill from his lips in a way he’ll never be able to get into words. 

“I love you,” Will mumbles, cupping Tom’s face in his hands, marking each word with another kiss. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Tom pulls him in until he’s practically lying on top of him and holds him close, his hands warm and comforting and grounding through Will’s shirt. This, right here, feels more like home than anywhere else ever could be; Will lost one home but found another—in Tom Blake’s arms.

“You’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me,” Tom says. He turns his head to press a kiss to Will’s shoulder.

“No, no,” Will says, “ _ you’re _ the best thing that’s ever happened to  _ me. _ ”

Neither of them says anything for a long, beautiful moment; they just curl up around each other, bodies fitting perfectly, content to listen as their heartbeats fall in sync. Will thinks he could die here, right now, and he’d be happy. He doesn’t need anything more than to know that Tom’s alive and safe.

“Hey,” Tom says abruptly, pulling Will out of his thoughts. He touches his hand lightly to Will’s neck, runs his finger down to his collarbone. “The bruise, it’s—it’s faded.”

Will lifts his hand and rests it over Tom’s, entwines their fingers together, leans into his delicate touch. “It has been a good few days, you know.” 

Tom laughs, quiet and soft, and says, “Maybe I should give you another one.”

Will lets out a ragged breath; something dark and hot pools low in his stomach. He glances around—they’re still alone. Good. He really, really needs some privacy now. 

“No,” he says, voice so husky he can barely recognize it. He crawls onto the bed, slowly but confidently, and brackets Tom with his thighs. And then he leans down until their lips are practically touching and whispers, “I think it’s my turn.” 

**Author's Note:**

> clearly, making out with your boyfriend is much more important than finding out if he actually went through with the mission. priorities, right?
> 
> i'm on tumblr @carolsdncvers! come talk to me about these boys, i love hearing from y'all!


End file.
